He went on and on and on.
Suddenly I felt my legs give way under me.
I was sick, tired—tired to death.
I let fall the tiller, turned my back on them, and sat down on the foremost thwart.
I had enough.
They called to me to know if I understood—wasn’t it true, every word of it?
It was true, by God! after their fashion.
I did not turn my head.
I heard them palavering together.
‘The silly ass won’t say anything.’
‘Oh, he understands well enough.’
‘Let him be; he will be all right.’
‘What can he do?’
What could I do?
Weren’t we all in the same boat?
I tried to be deaf.
The smoke had disappeared to the northward.
It was a dead calm.
They had a drink from the water-breaker, and I drank too.
Afterwards they made a great business of spreading the boat-sail over the gunwales.
Would I keep a look-out?
They crept under, out of my sight, thank God!
I felt weary, weary, done up, as if I hadn’t had one hour’s sleep since the day I was born.
I couldn’t see the water for the glitter of the sunshine.
From time to time one of them would creep out, stand up to take a look all round, and get under again.
I could hear spells of snoring below the sail.
Some of them could sleep.
One of them at least.
I couldn’t!
All was light, light, and the boat seemed to be falling through it.
Now and then I would feel quite surprised to find myself sitting on a thwart. . . .”
‘He began to walk with measured steps to and fro before my chair, one hand in his trousers-pocket, his head bent thoughtfully, and his right arm at long intervals raised for a gesture that seemed to put out of his way an invisible intruder.
‘“I suppose you think I was going mad,” he began in a changed tone. “And well you may, if you remember I had lost my cap.
The sun crept all the way from east to west over my bare head, but that day I could not come to any harm, I suppose.
The sun could not make me mad. . . .” His right arm put aside the idea of madness. . . . “Neither could it kill me. . . .” Again his arm repulsed a shadow. . . . “That rested with me.”
‘“Did it?” I said, inexpressibly amazed at this new turn, and I looked at him with the same sort of feeling I might be fairly conceived to experience had he, after spinning round on his heel, presented an altogether new face.
‘“I didn’t get brain fever, I did not drop dead either,” he went on. “I didn’t bother myself at all about the sun over my head.
I was thinking as coolly as any man that ever sat thinking in the shade.
That greasy beast of a skipper poked his big cropped head from under the canvas and screwed his fishy eyes up at me.
‘Donnerwetter! you will die,’ he growled, and drew in like a turtle.
I had seen him.
I had heard him.
He didn’t interrupt me.
I was thinking just then that I wouldn’t.”
‘He tried to sound my thought with an attentive glance dropped on me in passing.
“Do you mean to say you had been deliberating with yourself whether you would die?” I asked in as impenetrable a tone as I could command.
He nodded without stopping.
“Yes, it had come to that as I sat there alone,” he said.
He passed on a few steps to the imaginary end of his beat, and when he flung round to come back both his hands were thrust deep into his pockets.
He stopped short in front of my chair and looked down.